From a Dusty Attic
by Corvus no Genmu
Summary: Following in the trend of many other authors, "From a Dusty Attic" is a series of could-have-been & just-might-be stories. Some will be epic in sheer length and might be moved to their own one-shot, others just short enough to be called a chapter.
1. A Shadowed Heart

DISCLAIMER: All copyrighted materials belong to their respected owners.

* * *

Following in the trend of many other authors, From a Dusty Attic is a series of could-have-been & just-might-be stories. Some will be epic in sheer length and might be moved to their own one-shot, others just short enough to be called a chapter. All are open for adoption on the condition of asking first and if some garnish enough popularity, I may flesh them out into longer stories or at least add an additional scene or two. In any case, the dust and cobwebs have been wiped away so without further ado, I hope that you all enjoy:

* * *

**From a Dusty Attic**

By Corvus no Genmu

* * *

"_A Shadowed Heart_"

A pair of shining eyes blinked slowly in the darkness, candle flames wavering in the harsh winds. A flash of fire and light illuminated the once grand village. A gleam of obsidian fangs and midnight claws as the lanky form slinked forward, soft as a snake, to tower over the babe resting not far from the protection of the village's newly reinstated leader. A faint rustling of incorporeal materials and the claws were suddenly at the boy's chest, ready to tear past the soft flesh and grasp the beating heart beneath but stopped within a hair's width of slicing into the babe. Eyes of burning amber had taken notice of the babe's quiet breathing and with startled realization, discovered the child did not care for its presence there but the boy was asleep!

It stood back in contemplation of this. It climbed around the crib until it stood resting on the head board, long antennae twitching behind its hunched back. A claw gently stroked the naked torso, watching in mild fascination as black symbols of the arcane drew themselves on the young flesh. Its empty eyes seemed to blink as similar symbols stretched themselves out along its lanky arms and for the first time it felt something akin to fear. The strange yet alluring lack of hunger was a pleasant yet not unwelcomed surprise but these spells that tied it to the boy disturbed its sense of purpose and the symbols were a great wound to its pride as a Pureblood.

For as long as it remembered, the hunger had ruled supreme, the desire to feed too great to ignore and it fed, fed until it was the strongest of its brood and yet here it was, finally free of the hunger yet somehow tied and marked to this little thing, this human baby with not one but two hearts residing in his young body. A fanged frown deepened into confusion as a claw tapping inquisitively at the symbols upon the babe's stomach. Perhaps not in the physical sense but there was no denying this child was Two-In-One, it could sense it.

Its frown changed, its claws gripping deep enough into the crib to gouge large holes when it realized that it could not recall fully how it came to be here, on this star. The glow of its eyes dimmed considerably as its concentration seemed to fall upon itself. It remembered… the Soul Half… but… nothing more than that… It seemed to sigh, looking once more at the child, wondering if it would be better off taking the child's hearts now and be done away with him.

However… the idea of going back to before… of the constant hunger, the constant pain of needing to consume… Its head shook, antennae twitching. If this boy was the… key (how ironic to use _that_ word) to ending its hunger, it would gladly keep the child safe. Still… it was alone here and strong as it was, the creature was no fool. It would need… friends… It slid down until the shadows melted with its dark skin, sinking itself into the inky blackness until all that was left were dying ripples in the darkness.

It was a dark night, the shadows seemingly endless with the occasional flame bringing forth the light. It was only hours after the terrible attack and the destruction around the village was an obvious testament to how terrible it had truly been. Empty eyes looked about the damage without a drop of concern or care. With the bodies dead, the hearts were vanquished back to the Kingdom, beyond its reach. Strangely, there was some kind of… it did not recall the word, but it knew it didn't like the feel of it.

A sudden flash of light and pain unlike anything before assaulted its form. Had it any lungs, it would have screamed from the agony, as it was, it could only writhe along the ground until, mercifully, it fell once more into the shadows. Safe within the darkness of the Between, it looked to its arms and saw its marks, once barely seen, were now aglow with vibrant intensity and it realized instantly what had occurred, was occurring now. Something was hurting its key! The Two-In-One!

It moved faster than before, no longer holding back its strength as it moved past the speed of light and into the darkness of the candle-lit chamber where the child resided, unknowingly awaiting judgment of his fate. One of the elders, a member of the civilian side of the council, had raised their voice loud enough to scare the child awake and had earned his tears.

And through those salted waters, the council earned its wrath!

It exploded forth from the shadow beneath the babe's crib, climbing along its wooden surface until it rested once more at the head in a defensive crouch. Its antennae twitched for any small sign of movement as long nimble claws stretched out and golden eyes glaring at any who dared a step closer to the boy.

Their reactions were not surprising and their startled actions were a humorless joke to it. None dared to strike it when the Elder made his will known with a loud declaration. It stood, still crouched protectively over the boy, antennae twitching as the Elder slowly made his way closer. It stopped just beyond what he assumed would be its reach and simply waited.

It cocked its head in sudden confusion. It saw the Elder's heart, as it could to any that held such a precious thing, and yet there was… something else. It stretched a hand out and gently grasped the red-tinged light, careful of its claws, and took note of how strong it appeared. It looked down upon the babe and saw the string connect to the First Heart and understood. Whoever this Elder was, he was no enemy to it or to the Two-In-One. It looked once more to the Elder before gently touching a paw against the babe's torso, lighting the symbols adorning his navel, its own lighting up along its arms.

There was that feeling again, not its own but it could sense it in the hearts of those around them. It delighted in the taste of that feeling for it was strong and bitter to the tongue. Were it still consumed by the fierce hunger, it would have leapt at the chance to feed.

"Surely this is a sign! The Kyuubi still lives in the boy; we should kill it now before it—" The woman was silenced, her eyes wide with fear at the sight of its claws tearing deep, past mundane cloth and mortal flesh. She gasped in pain as it slowly began to squeeze the life out of her. The Elder made no move to stop it nor did anyone else dare to move in any way lest they earn a similar fate. The pink-haired female would have had her heart devoured then and there, were it not for the gentle hand tugging upon its antennae. It stopped and looked down upon its key and saw eyes of a shining blue.

A very familiar shade…

Its hand withdrew and the woman collapsed onto the floor, her strength gone. Satisfied that none would dare to lay a hand against the Two-In-One, it started to sink back into the darkness when the Elder stopped it with a single question.

"What are you?"

It blinked its glowing eyes, and slowly slunk forward so that it crouched over the Elder's shadow. It slowly sank away into the darkness until all that remained were its golden eyes, devoid of heart's light. The shadows in the room warped and stretched into a single, large mass along the floor before they slithered up along the wall. If the Elder wanted to know it, what better way was there then to use the symbol of the Marked Ones?

A burning red light emanated from the center of the shadowed mass, stretching along a line to form a shape like that of a heart before a barbed X appeared above the heart's center like a bloodied wound. The whispers of the wind gave a name to both the symbol and the monster who gave idea to its creation.

_"Heartless…"_


	2. Rage of the Avatars

DISCLAIMER: All copyrighted materials belong to their respected owners.

* * *

Following in the trend of many other authors, From a Dusty Attic is a series of could-have-been & just-might-be stories. Some will be epic in sheer length and might be moved to their own one-shot, others just short enough to be called a chapter. All are open for adoption on the condition of asking first and if some garnish enough popularity, I may flesh them out into longer stories or at least add an additional scene or two. In any case, the dust and cobwebs have been wiped away so without further ado, I hope that you all enjoy:

* * *

**From a Dusty Attic**

By Corvus no Genmu

* * *

"_Rage of the Avatars_"

For a hundred years, the war has continued to rage in a constant state of teetering Balance of three sides while a fourth lay dead in the ashen remains of their once impenetrable mountain havens. For a century that injustice has remained free of vengeance, the crime unpunished and the original perpetrators paying only in the Spirit Realm while the seeds of their evil continued to grow and choke the once proud nation of flames and turn its people against everything it had stood for. The essence of the World, that which had given life to the lifeless, the elements to their respected denizens, and powers unrivaled to its Chosen, has grown angrier by the day to a point where She has grown to hate the youngest of Her children. Mankind has done a great evil by breaking the Balance but hope remains in the last of the Air Nomads, the current Chosen of the World who holds a thousand and one generation's worth of knowledge and power.

He whom the humans call the Avatar.

He has mastered the Air, the Water, and the Earth, but remains unbalanced from his hesitation in mastering the Fire. He who is supposed to be the very representative of the Balance in physical form. He is not eager to learn and those who could teach him cannot by their own choice or otherwise. The Essence of the World thought the childish Chosen a fool but had become proud that he had begun to master his true potential, to achieve the truest connection into Her Heart and wield Her Power at its fullest. He was moments away from achieving it, moments away from becoming a True Chosen when he was taken from her, the connection shattered like twine and his life forfeit to Death.

Fury made the molten blood of the World burn hotter, hatred made the earth tremble, despair churned the oceans into a froth, and vengeance was given voice by the howls of the wind. Seals ancient as the World itself began to slowly began to shine as locks came undone one piece at a time as those that lay within the impenetrable cages began to stir to life, awakened from their slumber by the will of the World, their jailer who in turn opened the gates to their freedom. The Four Scions of the World, all abominations of power unrivaled yet equaled to each other and whom had, from the moment of birth, unleashed naught but destruction upon everything that stood in their path, alive again and collared only by a shared purpose, the one solitary price for their freedom.

The Fangs of the Air.

The Claws of the Earth.

The Spires of the Water.

The Fury of the Flame.

The Four Great Avatars of Old are arising to their Mother's cries, Her fury intertwining with their own and strengthening it to cataclysmic altitudes. Let the fires of hell run rampant, the abysmal water churn into a frothing torrent, the earth quake in a continental upheaval, and the winds whip forth the full fury of heaven. The war to end all wars has begun so before you continue on, reading this last and final Book of the Avatar ask yourself one question…

Are you ready?

* * *

Azure and Crimson, Yang and Yin, Darkness and Light. The two dragons entwined around him in his fevered dreams of the numerable futures that could await him. One, azure as the deepest blue, represented words of false delights, of great tales of honor reestablished, of fatherly love and respect given to him, and a scar-less visage sitting rightfully upon the throne. The other, crimson as the flames he bent to his will, represented harsh truths, of the pure form of honor, of following his own destiny and the familial love of an uncle for his nephew. The throne room cracked and soon shattered like glass as his soul was being driven in two by the circling dragons. The azure spoke of rest, of sleeping in the grave. The crimson spoke of awakening, of realizing his true self.

The light destroyed them both and left Zuko alone with the heavenly woman standing before him in the garbs of a princess but unlike any the prince had ever seen before. For one thing, she was far too beautiful to be a mortal woman and though her hair was stark white, she appeared no older than he yet she seemed to possess a wisdom greater than his uncle all at once. At her brow was a trio of jeweled orbs arranged like a triangle and thrumming to the beat of a heart.

His false image gone, Zuko felt almost naked before the heavenly girl. Prince though he was, he felt every bit the fugitive that he had become. "Who… are you…?" Her smile brought an embarrassed flush to his face and he started to turn away from her when she spoke.

"Who I am does not matter. It is who _you_ are that does. You are marked by fate, Zuko." His hand rose to his scar but was stopped by her own. "No. this mark is not one that mortal eyes can see. It's somewhere here…" She touched his chest, just above his heart. "Fate has marked you as someone of great importance to the World, Zuko. You and those farthest yet closest to you must together unite against what comes."

"What? What's coming?"

"Zuko… You have been out from your father's shadow for years, have you not seen the damage for yourself? The Balance of Nature is all but destroyed and the one remaining chance of restoring it lies in the hands of the very being you've sought to capture."

"The Avatar." Zuko whispered.

"The Last Airbender. The genocide of his people was a crime that can go unpunished no longer Zuko. She has grown tired of waiting. She demands justice but She waits to see what the human Avatar may do."

Zuko's eyes narrowed. "The _human_ Avatar?" He repeated.

"You know that humans are not the masters of the elements, Zuko." She gently chided him. "They learned from their teachers and those teachers from the Avatars, the true and living embodiments of the four elements. The Essence of the World, that which humans have come to calling "God"." Zuko's eyes widened at that but she wasn't finished. "She is _angry_, Zuko. She is tired of waiting for peace, for the restoration of the Balance, for the humans to stop this senseless war of destruction and conquest. The comet comes soon Zuko and what Ozai plans to do… She will sooner see the destruction of all life by Her will than to let it fall to the whims of a madman.

"She will break the bonds that hold the Avatars and unleash them upon the planet once more. I cannot stop them alone and if events should lead to their release… I don't think that I'll want to either."

Zuko stared at the woman finding himself at a loss for words save for one all-encompassing question. "Who _are_ you?"

She smiled sadly and leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss upon his brow. "A friend, Zuko… and, a messenger." She vanished away into a haze of butterflies and Zuko awoke to an all-too familiar ceiling feeling strangely refreshed yet empty at the same time as his lips unconsciously moved to a name.

"_Mosura…_"

* * *

With Zuko, Iroh, and Katara distracted by the Dai Li, Azula did the one thing that she would forever regret for the rest of her life…

She struck the Avatar and severed his connection to the elements… and thus damned every living human all in one blow.

The Avatar fell to the earth, dying if not already dead, Katara screaming in horror while the two firebenders could only stare in shock, one in revulsion and another in growing horror. Zuko turned to face his sister, daggers of flame at hand, but stopped at the sight of the ethereal princess from his fever dreams standing before Azula.

"Do you have any idea as to what you've done?" she asked the younger girl. "What disaster you've brought upon this world?"

"I've done the impossible!" exclaimed Azula, a cruel smile on her face. "I've killed the Avatar!"

"No… you've merely condemned us all."

* * *

The island of Avatar Kyoshi, which was so named by its creator, was being torn apart from the inside. Ancient trees fell dead to the ground and great stone mountains began to crumble as great monstrous claws dug through the earth before a golden horn pierced through the thick skin of the World and a fanged maw breathed fresh air once again and screamed in exhalation of it. Finned ears shook themselves clear of dirt and debris, scales the color of freshly red clay shining in the light of the sun. Large enough to swallow an elephant koi whole, the terrific beast rose slowly to its hind legs as the horn atop its forehead shined with golden light. The beast sniffed the air before turning blood red eyes to the northeast. Lips curled in a vicious growl, the beast fell to all-fours with earth-trembling force. Those few people still left alive to be aware of the cause of the disaster that had befallen their island home could only watch in mounting horror as Baragon the Earth's Claws roared his fury to the heavens before digging down into the ground and disappearing once more into the earth.

Off the shores of the South Pole, the waters were frothing into a thick boil as massive chunks of ice fell away and exploded upwards into the air from the heat of the water. Thousands of marine life swam for their lives only to die as the arctic waters boiled them alive. From the middle of this massive boil rose a solitary iceberg that bore no smooth crystalline surface but a cruel field of spikes larger than any icicle had right to be. The waters suddenly cooled as a head bearing a crown of horns cleared the waters. A snort from nostrils large enough for a man to walk through unleashed a thick fog upon the cooling sea. A thick tail rose up from the waves, sporting a thick club of spikes upon its tip that came crashing down as the monster's head turned to the north, great tusked mouth opening in a baleful cry. Those of the southern village of the Water Tribe, the women and children left behind, could only watch as Anguirus the Water's Spires dove back down into the waves and disappeared beneath the ice.

Atop the mountain of the northern Air Temple, the skies were dark as night though the sun was only just now beginning to set upon the horizon. Great bolts of lightning shot through the air like jagged javelins as the roaring wind ripped the stonework of the ancient temple upwards into the sky before shooting them back down at unparalleled speeds. The darkening clouds slowly started to circle but no twister came slinking down, no, something much worse emerged as the air was rent by a terrible roar that echoed down the entire mountain range. A massively lithe form landed atop the temple's rooftops, crushing it with weight and claw. A reptilian that bore the features of a bat yet colored like fresh dawn gazed hatefully down the mountain and, seeing the bleached bones of the dead still remaining, screamed its fury once more as a lizard's tail opened up into a massive fan that crashed down and brought forth another gale. The spiked head turned to the south and a serpent's tongue tasted the wind. No one left alive to witness his return, Varan the Wind's Fangs leapt from the mountain temple glided upwards into the dark storm that followed in his wake.

Within the volcano of the nearby Fire Temple, lava was spewing upwards in great plumes as ash and smoke alike rose to the heavens and blackened the sky. Thick cracks issued out thin clouds of sulfurous gas that ignited into towers of fire. Anything remotely flammable had already been burnt into ash from the rising heat of the suddenly rejuvenated volcano and those few sage that had let the evil of their lord touch their hearts were the first amongst the mounting dead though the temple and its sacred relics remained untouched despite the increasing onslaught. A roar echoed outwards from the depths of the volcano before the fires suddenly died down into embers and molten rock became hardened stone in an instant. As the thick smoke began to thrift into the air, a gigantic form could be seen walking out from the volcano's center. The monster was massive and black as fresh obsidian with thick spikes and horns the color of liquid silver. Entirely draconic but thicker built like an ancient thunder lizard rather than a young serpent, the monster stood on four great legs and a large tail followed along behind it. The monster glared downwards at the fire temple and snorted, turning gleaming molten eyes towards the east. A blast of white flames ripped through the air from the beast's mouth. The one sage still left alive watched in his final minutes as Garuga the Flame's Fury flew upwards into the sky on wings of freshly spilled blood.

* * *

"Condemned?" hissed Azula.

The unearthly beauty merely shook her head before stiffening and looking about herself in obvious fear. "They are coming… Quickly!" She appeared instantly by Zuko's side. "You must get out of the city as fast as you can!"

"What?" A groaning roar echoed from above the cavern's waterfall and one could just see the silhouette of a flying-bison through the rushing waters. Katara glanced upwards before looking down at the comatose Avatar within her arms.

"Come on, we're getting out of here." She shot a look towards Iroh and Zuko. "_All_ of us."

"I think not!" Azula shot a blast of blue-fire only for it to bounce away from the glowing orb of light surrounding the group. "_What?_"

"Go!" ordered the ethereal girl, her arms spread and her glimmering wings fully extended from her back. "I'll keep them back as long as I can."

* * *

Baragon was drawing closer to the source of his sudden reawakening. He could almost taste it in the dirt surrounding him as he tunneled beneath the ground with nary a sign of his passing presence.

Anguirus could sense Mother's frustration and the waters surrounding him began to boil as he sped onwards.

Varan grinned and dove downwards, grazing the land and reveling in the destruction that followed him.

Garuga flew forward, his eyes only towards where his brethren would eventually meet for the first time in several millennia as the trees below him ignited with every flap of his wings.

* * *

"We should go back!" growled Zuko, his good eye narrowed and his teeth clenching tightly. "We've got to evacuate the city!"

"Hey, even if your monsters are real," said Toph. "What makes you think anyone else will believe you? You're Fire-Nation remember?" Zuko clenched his fists tightly and glared at the blind girl.

"Now, now…" murmured the Earth King. "We mustn't fight that we should not…"

"How can we not?" grumbled Toph. "Twinkletoes is out of commission, the Earth Kingdom has fallen, we're on the run from that psycho and the Dai Li, and we've supposedly got a bunch of monsters coming to destroy the world."

Zuko was about to retort when a golden butterfly landed atop his nose. "What?"

"_Land,_" whispered the butterfly, loud enough for all of them to hear. "_Quickly. Get into the caves._"

Katara glanced downwards and saw a large cave imbedded deep in one of the Earth Kingdom's numerous mountains. Appa quickly flew downwards and landed at the cave's entrance and growled at the darkness but shuffled forward regardless of his fears. His partner was in danger and he too could sense the approaching presences of the Old Ones as well as any of the elemental wielders could though the humans knew not this feeling for what it was. To them, this was the fear of loss, the dismay of another failure, and the revulsion of a victory so close only to be taken afar. These thoughts and others like them were swiftly silenced by a horrendous shriek coming from above the mountain.

Eyes turned upwards into the sky as a large form glided downwards and shrieked again as the massive body of Varan came crashing down at the mountain's base. Serpent's tongue tasted the air and his spiked head turned every which way in confusion. Batty nostrils flared for added depth but no good. Perhaps it was a mistake in the wind, but whatever the case it was time to move onward. The Fangs of the Wind leapt into the air and let the air carry him onwards towards Ba Sing Se as more roars echoed in the remaining three corners.

"Was that… one of your monsters Sparky?" whispered Toph, shaken to the core just from the sound of the creature's roars.


	3. Words from the Dead

DISCLAIMER: All copyrighted materials belong to their respected owners.

* * *

Following in the trend of many other authors, From a Dusty Attic is a series of could-have-been & just-might-be stories. Some will be epic in sheer length and might be moved to their own one-shot, others just short enough to be called a chapter. All are open for adoption on the condition of asking first and if some garnish enough popularity, I may flesh them out into longer stories or at least add an additional scene or two. In any case, the dust and cobwebs have been wiped away so without further ado, I hope that you all enjoy:

* * *

**From a Dusty Attic**

By Corvus no Genmu

* * *

"_Words from the Dead_"  
A Drabble Fic

My name is Salazar Schwarzblut and I have done many things…

I have killed soldiers who fought out of patriotic pride, slain knights defending the innocent out of duty, butchered those same innocents struggling to survive against my unending slaughter, and more besides… Much, much more… I have committed atrocities the likes of which only the truest of evils could ever conceive in the darkest pits of their delighted nightmares. I have sullied the honor I had possessed in life into dirtied tatters of the prideful banner it once was. I have sinned my soul blacker than the deepest void.

Who am I…?

I am Salazar Schwarzblut…

Once a warrior of the Light…

Once a slave cursed by primordial magic…

Once a patriot fighting in defense of men and country…

Once resurrected to fight again with no will, no hope, to call my own…

Now and forever more… a Death Knight…

In that final battle, in that last stand at the Light's Hope Chapel… where victory for our side was all but assured… My fellow knights and I lost as much as we had gained. By the Light or by fortune, the Argent Dawn had won against impossible odds of an army of undead until only the Death Knights remained, kneeling in defeat. Then… everything changed… I cannot speak for what my fellow knights witnessed but if I were to guess by my own experience…

Those who left the world before us, those who we held close to our hearts even under the cold grasp of the Lich King, came to us and broke the shackles that bound us to him. We were free to live again but as what? Most of us were not resurrected as the rest of the Scourge, we were whole and complete as we had been in life and we still bled, still hungered for the necessities of life. Whatever we had become, our leader Highlord Darion Mograine was the first to rise against the Lich King who assured Tirion Fordring's words true, that me and my fellow Death Knights had been sent out on a mission of death but not of the enemy…

The Death Knights of Acherus were indeed the Lich King's greatest soldiers… too great for him it appeared. For though our minds were shackled to his cause, there was something he couldn't keep chained forever, something that set us apart from the rest of the Scourge.

Our very souls.

Renamed as the Knights of the Ebon Blade, we took the floating base where we were born anew into Azeroth as our own, freeing it and what few undead denizens within that held no love for the Lich King from his control. We were free and, for the most part, allied with the newly christened Argent Crusade, a union of the Argent Dawn and the Order of the Silver Hand, but it was not enough to ally ourselves with such a small faction that was but a spark to the two great infernos that blazed against each other so readily across Azeroth.

I had heard that few of my… friendlier knights had been selected to approach King Varian Wrynn with Thassarian leading them. Imagine then my surprise at being selected to go as well.

What has happened since I died…?

I cannot say… the only one who could have told me is dead, killed by my own hand.

So here we were, standing before the closed gates of Stormwind, a single member of every Allied race. Thassarian stood at the fore with the banner of truce, his face shadowed beneath the darkness of his helm. The others and I remained close enough that we stood with him but far enough that our hesitance in entering was clear despite how cold and indifferent we were on the outside.

"_This is foolish… King Wrynn hates the Scourge almost as much as he hates the Horde, what could possibly be in that letter that would stay his hand?_" muttered Bilbo, a dwarf with an attitude outmatching his stature. At the training camp where we were to strengthen our new powers and abilities beneath the protective shadow of the floating necropolis of Acheron, Bilbo was a constant thorn in the side of many a newly resurrected Death Knight, constantly challenging duels and only ceasing in his badgering when the duel was accepted and won. He has little respect for anyone except perhaps for me, the only one of the "freshies" that actually beat him at his own game.

"_The archers haven't fired upon us so perhaps Fordring was true to his word?_" Rosewind suggested. A night-elf and by far the most compassionate of any Death Knight. From what few times our paths had crossed, it was plain to see that she was the closest to any of us to breaking free from the Lich King on her own. She still committed much of the same sins as any one of us but she was at least kind enough to only attack those who struck first and only landing a killing blow rather than the tortures that our shortest member is infamous for.

"_More likely he's having the guards set up some cannons to blow us back to the pits._" Gearfried, a gnome, was more easily recognized by his informal title of "Blood Clown". He earned that title for his mastery over Blood magic and his exuberance when he was in charge of gathering information from prisoners. Some say that if his jokes weren't enough to kill you, than his maniacal laughter as he set his magic upon you would drive you to the brink of madness. Since our freedom he has not so much as spoken more than a single word at a time since. That he said a whole sentence makes me wonder if he is the more scared than any of us for he, like Bilbo and Thassarian, were veteran knights compared to me and the last member of our intrepid band of monstrous misfits.

"_Why we would be saved only to die now?_" whispered Saria, a draenei, and one who spoke even less than Gearfried though for different reasons. Her race is one of the closest to the Light with more paladins and priests than all of the races combined. As she was now, Saria was everything that her people stood against and reviled. Out of all of us, she hid herself the most within the shadows of her cloak. For though we all were pale as death, even Rosewind was a few shades shy of being the same violet hue that was her people's skin tone, Saria truly looked like the walking dead with her skin pale and ashen, nothing at all like the vibrant azures and violets I have seen of her people.

"_The gates,_" is my only contribution to the conversation, bring their attention to the gates of Stormwind now opened for us to enter with a small troop of guards standing on either side with enough venom in their glare to put down a full grown dragon in moments. We look to Thassarian, the elected leader of our Alliance band of Death Knights and spokesperson to our cause to King Wrynn.

"_Let's go._" Is all that he says and all that needed to be said. He goes and we follow and the gate guards let us by with open scowls and angry glares but do not attack or hinder us.

Sadly, such control did not last long for them or the citizens of Stormwind.

When it became apparent that we were maintaining our word of peace to the people within Stormwind's walls, whatever compunctions the guards had at keeping their own word quickly crumbled as jeering shouts and calls for a hangman's rope began to follow us as we traveled to Stormwind Keep.

The citizens, bolstered by the "bravado" of the city guards, joined in with their own ammunition of words and rotten food. Thassarian ignored everything around him, focusing only on the path ahead with a dedication I would have admired under different circumstances. Bilbo was trembling with suppressed anger, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought to restrain the urge to unbuckle his hammer and lay waste to the growing crowd. Rosewind did her best to emulate Thassarian but she still flinched when comparisons were made between her and the leader of the Forsaken, undead free from the control of the Lich King like the Ebon Blade but have allied themselves to the Horde. Gearfried was quiet as always but I noticed that he stood closer to Rosewind, putting himself between her and the crowd. I followed in his example with Saria whose cloak held the most stains of food and spittle though the self-cleaning charms were operating as efficiently as our own. They saw the Burning Legion in her just as much as the saw the Scourge. It makes me wonder what they see in the likes of me.

I got my answer in the form of a woman running at me with a small dagger in hand and screaming what I can only assume was some form of battle cry. The blade shattered against my armor and she fell back from the force of it. She sat there shocked though compared to the crowd's reaction, more pertinently the city guards, hers was minute. The civilians were pale-faced and a good few had dropped whatever fruit they had in hand and making a very undignified retreat. The guards were no longer jeering and had their hands upon their weapons though a good number of them were trembling within their decorative armor. My fellow knights had stopped just ahead of me, all turned and facing the woman that had the gall to break the treaty of non-violence between us of the Ebon Blade and the people of Stormwind.

I glanced at the broken dagger in the woman's hand before gazing up into her eyes and seeing… despair, pain, and… acceptance. Her heart was broken, her loved ones dead by the hands of the Scourge or my kind I couldn't tell, and as much as she wanted to avenge them there was something else she wanted even more.

"_I will not become the instrument to your suicide._" I informed her quietly. Her eyes widened in shock from my ability to speak or perhaps by my words, either way she wept all the same. "_You want to make a stand against the evils that assault our world… Then live. Live and be happy. Find a spark of light in the darkness and cherish it with everything you have and never let it go._" I looked to Tharassian whose eyes shone just a bit brighter, his version of a smile I guess, before he turned and continued on to the Keep with the others and me following close behind.

I had hoped that would be the end of the drama for today; that we would speak our peace to King Wrynn and be done with it, for good or ill, and from there I… I could do something with myself. Of course I would assist in the downfall of the Lich King but I need, I _want_ to become stronger… so that no one else can ever make a slave of me ever again.

I should have realized that whatever gods remain listening to the mortal coil of Creation turn a deaf ear upon me.

The throne room was outlined with the royal guards, those entrusted to protect the royal family with their freshly departed souls if need be. King Wrynn and the prince were present, both standing before the throne, the lad's face pale at the sight of us but he remained by his father's side with his hands held firmly at his side, a truer sign of belief in our intentions we've yet to see from anyone else even in his father the king. Varian Wrynn was every bit the scowling visage I had heard and while there was no missing the distaste evident on his scarred visage there was something else there as well, but it was not him that my eyes remained locked upon but the man, the king, at his left.

Greymane.

"You have mere moments to live, so I suggest you make use of them now." King Wrynn spoke frankly and Tharassian responded in kind though he kept his tongue still. Instead, he reached out and held the roll of parchment, the letter from Highlord Mograine. King Wrynn took it firmly and again that spark of something was there. Prince Anduin appeared surprise at his father's actions but pleased just as well.

I remained behind the others, blending as seamlessly as I could with Saria and Rosewind, the only ones close to my own towering height. It was not out of fear that I stood in the shadows of my sisters-in-death but of surprise. That Greymane had broken his own law of self-isolation, to clearly be here beside the very king he had all but spat upon before the Third War, something had to have happened in the world beyond the necrotic horrors spawned from the Lich King. Something that would have forced Gilneas back into this chaotic, bloodied world… and I had no desire to know what it was for I had made my plans, marked the path ahead and I could not be deterred by anyone.

Even by the man that I still called my king.

The rustling of paper drew my eyes back to King Wrynn whose eyes were starring off into the distant past and he at last looked his age as he spoke, "Indeed old friend… Blood and honor." He turned and affixed his gaze upon us, looking us each in turn and I could swear that his gaze lingered on me before they fell to Tharassian. "Were it not for this letter from Tirion, you would be stains upon my floor. Only an endorsement from one of the greatest paladins to ever live could have ensured your survival."

"Father…?" Prince Anduin prompted when no further word came from the man.

"We…" King Wrynn steeled himself further, "We will work together against the Scourge. Against the Lich King! GLORY TO THE ALLIANCE!" He raised a gauntleted hand up and spoke with a True Voice of Authority to all of the Alliance, "People of Stormwind! Citizens of the Alliance! Your king speaks! Today marks the first of many defeats for the Scourge! Death Knights, once in service of the Lich King, have broken free of his grasp and formed a new alliance against his tyranny! You will welcome these former heroes of the Alliance and treat them with the respect that you would give any ally of Stormwind! Glory to the Alliance!"

Tharassian nodded and glanced back at the rest of us, "_Return to the Ebon Hold and inform Highlord Mograine of the news._" We bowed as one and turned to depart, the incantation to the calling of the Death Gate already on my lips when—

"Hold." Though my back was turned, I could still hear King Greymane stepping forward. "There is among you a single member of every major faction within the Alliance." Shadows warped to an unseen wolf's calling. I whirled and openly stared at the man who had been my king in life and who now shared the same curse that plagued me still even in death. "I would know a hero of my people."

"… _Your Majesty._" I bowed with arms spread out, palms to the sky as was the proper Gilnean tradition. "_If ever I deserved such a title it was in life, not as I am now._"

King Greymane's nostrils flared, taking in my scent but I doubt he'd recognize—"Salazar Schwarzblut?"

Though I could not see it, I'm certain that my eyes flashed brighter as the temperature in the room dropped several degrees, frost crawling outward from where my feet touched the ground. My hands, my claws, were clenched tightly enough that I felt more than heard the knuckles pop. If he was at all perturbed by my reaction, King Greymane didn't show it. He merely stood there, waiting for me to answer for he had no reason to answer mine.

"_… I am he. Though how you've come to learn of me…_" There were ways, plenty of ways he might have learned of me, but none could allow him the scent that lingered still beneath the bloodied ice. Except… impossible. "_Godric still lives…?_"

King Greymane nodded once. "He has been making quite the name for himself. He was recruited by the Archivist Guild last that I heard." My hands unclenched. That guild of all guilds… he has changed in more ways than one I suppose.

"_… I appreciate the warning your highness._" I bowed once more. "_For Gilneas…_" To King Varian and Prince Anduin. "_For the Alliance…_" I turned and with a few whispered words, the Death Gate to Ebon Hold was before me. I stepped through and was immediately assaulted with the stench of death, blood, and decay.

So… he's gone and joined the Archivist Guild… The only guild on all of Azeroth with one stipulation, one basic creed… Its doors open to any sentient race capable or willing to follow that creed to the gates of oblivion with no regards to the warring factions or the numerous professional classes. Yet only the top could truly earn membership to this illustrious guild for they, like all other guilds, had a test of character, one that wasn't difficult to accomplish all considering.

One hundred undead, from skeletal warriors to flesh golems it didn't matter so long as they were dust beneath the dirt once more.

It wouldn't matter that I was tied to the Alliance or that I was seeking to bring an end to the Lich King and all the other horrors that threaten the fragile stability of Azeroth. If Godric and I ever crossed paths we would cross swords as well. He would do everything in his power to see me destroyed no matter that I would do far worse.

Because he is my brother… and I love him too much to do anything less.


	4. Harry Potter and the First Master

DISCLAIMER: All copyrighted materials belong to their respected owners.

* * *

Following in the trend of many other authors, From a Dusty Attic is a series of could-have-been & just-might-be stories. Some will be epic in sheer length and might be moved to their own one-shot, others just short enough to be called a chapter. All are open for adoption on the condition of asking first and if some garnish enough popularity, I may flesh them out into longer stories or at least add an additional scene or two. In any case, the dust and cobwebs have been wiped away so without further ado, I hope that you all enjoy:

* * *

**From a Dusty Attic**

By Corvus no Genmu

* * *

"_Harry Potter and the First Master_"

_At age… one year and three months…_

The baby was crying, alone and afraid for the loud noises and flashing lights that preceded the painful agony that was a burdening upon his very soul and the inexplicable knowledge that his parents were gone and were never coming back. Even a baby may feel the death of loved ones though they may not fully comprehend it, and a magical child especially so, but a child such as this on this night of nights? Oh no, it had nothing to do with the ancient and forbidden spells his mother had cast moments before her death or the sliver of the dark lord's twisted soul stuck deep into the baby's forehead thanks in part to that same magic and the wizard's own arrogance.

It was thanks to that man in the corner.

That man stood watching the baby as a child might to an ant. Something like curiosity drew his gaze upon the wailing baby but it was a distant interest, an interest spurred by the explosive magical backlash that could be felt across the entirety of what was once his domain. The ant had bested a hornet, a rare improbability that garnered at least a cursory look if nothing else.

The baby rubbed at his forehead, wiping away the blood the wept from the wound that oozed with the foulest of magic. Silver cloth flowed like mother's milk and embraced the child in its invisible embrace and he smiled a smile of malicious fangs and wicked teeth hidden behind a mask of bleached wood.

He had wondered what had become of it and now that he knew, his intrigue rose with his opinion of the child. That which had no sense of life and was to its very essence, everything that was not alive, had reacted of its own accord to protect a living human child. It had accepted the baby as it had only accepted one other, he whom had given it form, function, and purpose.

He reached forth and pulled the material aside and saw once more the child.

"_So… it is to be you…?_" His voice was the echoes of shadows, the melodies of falling leaves, and the symphony of passing moonlight and his touch was a bitter cold to the bones, the familiar warmth to the soul. It was the touch of an old friend remembered but not one of welcome… but not tonight.

The man stepped back into the welcoming darkness and his eyes, hidden so deeply beneath his mask that only shadows remained, turned back to face the sleeping child. The thirteenth hour was in sight and the night had only just begun but he had seen enough this night of nights.

"_Until next we meet… Harry James Potter…_"

* * *

_At age… two years and three months…_

Petunia had no idea how long the man had been in her home but she knew the instant that she saw him that was worse than the freaks that her sister had dallied herself to the grave with. Worse than the foul, old man who had burdened Petunia's life with the presence of her unwanted nephew, the baby laying deathly still in his crib making not a sound as this man, this monster, approached him.

A hand cupped the face of her nephew and his eyes opened, glazed over from weakness of neglect and hunger. He reeked of his own filth, and his bones were clearer than the day was bright and the moment the man turned to face her Petunia knew. She knew that her blood would make the red of the sunset be as pale as mother's milk on the walls of her home. The moment that man had turned his masked visage upon her and was suddenly before her, towering to the ceiling when once he was no taller than she, a hand reaching upwards to her neck and past it to gently cup her face and stroke it like one would a lost lover.

The other hand went further beyond, up to the bone white mask that hid the face beneath a cowl of obsidian and as she squealed and struggled to close her eyes, to turn her head, to do anything in her power to not see what lay beneath that plain looking mask, it was all for naught. It came free and with it, reality itself shattered around Petunia.

No longer was she in the broken safety of her home but an abysmal graveyard where hundreds upon hundreds of skeletons danced beneath the midnight light of a crescent moon. They danced to the callings of ravens, the drumming of spiders, and the songs of wolves; a mad dance that had no rhythm nor reason to its movements as limbs twisted and turned and bones shifted between partners and back again in a chaotically sensible show of partnership between the long since departed.

And through it all, the man continued his fanged grin.

The world snapped back into place with the replacement of the wooden mask, the impossibly large grin hidden once more beneath it and Petunia fell to her knees with choked gasps whilst tears fell like rain from her sullied eyes.

A gesture of hands summoned up a bottle of formula that tingled with an ethereal glow of revitalization. A silvery shroud appeared from nowhere and moistened itself with this concocted and let Petunia's nephew suckle from its cloth. The man watched as the strength returned to the baby and replaced silver cloak with a proper bottle and let the silvery embrace vanish the child beneath its soft folds as he turned once more to Petunia Dursley.

"_Next time… I will take the boy in your stead._" His hand laid itself upon the other crib in the room and her eyes widened with horror. She tried to scream, to plead for her son, but Petunia's voice had run itself hoarse when she had been dragged into that ghoulish celebration of the dead. It didn't matter though, for even without her voice her eyes screamed on her behalf and the man knew that she would not transgress to this level ever again though she may never love or care for the child as she ought.

He turned his back to her, fully facing Harry Potter for the first time in a year, meeting his emerald gaze fully. There was no comprehension, no sign of recognition, but there was curiosity in those greened depths and there, just a flicker but still latched tightly, a flicker of a blackened soul. The man reached out and rested his hand upon the feeding baby, ruffling the black locks of hair that were starting to take a tangled life of their own.

"_Until next we meet…_"

* * *

_At age… five …_

If Harry Potter knew one thing about Halloween it was that it was a day spent locked inside his cupboard under the stairs just like Christmas, Easter Sunday, and many other such obviously important days and nights that had come before and after. In fact, he'd likely had never even heard the name if his cousin Dudley hadn't had a royal fit over attaining what was to be a country's worth of candy. So here Harry was, sitting locked in his cupboard under the stairs wondering just what was it about this day that made it a holiday. What was it that its very name had his uncle's mustache fluffing with rage and his aunt shatter the china?

"_Would you like to find out?_"

The lock on his cupboard clicked open, a midnight breeze flowing cool, welcomed air into the small space.

Harry had no experience with people beyond his family so he was not as shy or as cautious as a child his age should be. He welcomed the chance for open spaces and meeting someone who was not his uncle, aunt, or cousin. What he saw… well, he wasn't quite certain just who this person was other than a strange man. He didn't look at all like anyone Harry had seen passing by through the windows of the house. In fact, the only thing that Harry could say about the man with absolute certainty was that his face was covered behind a wooden mask that was whiter than the moon and held aloft beneath a cloak of the deepest black he had ever seen.

"_Well?_" The man held out his hand to Harry.

"Who… who are you sir?" asked Harry as he took the man's hand and felt the strangest of sensations, a coldness in his bones but a strange, almost welcoming, warmth from deep within… and was it his imagination or did he hear a faint hissing sound?

The man's mask tilted as he considered the question. "_You may call me… Samuel. Samuel Hain._"


	5. The Eighth Servant: The Beast Part One

DISCLAIMER: All copyrighted materials belong to their respected owners.

* * *

Following in the trend of many other authors, From a Dusty Attic is a series of could-have-been & just-might-be stories. Some will be epic in sheer length and might be moved to their own one-shot, others just short enough to be called a chapter. All are open for adoption on the condition of asking first and if some garnish enough popularity, I may flesh them out into longer stories or at least add an additional scene or two. In any case, the dust and cobwebs have been wiped away so without further ado, I hope that you all enjoy:

* * *

**From a Dusty Attic**

By Corvus no Genmu

* * *

"_The Eighth Servant_"

Part One

Saber… masters of swords whose own legends often surpass beyond they who wield them. Lancer… wielders of spears, lances, any and all weapons that provide the extra reach that make striking them down all but impossible. Archer… the true masters of the long-range weaponry who possess such incredible strength of will that they virtually become their own masters. Rider… they who've mastered their mounts to such a degree that even upon their own feet they are a passing blur to untrained eyes. Caster… magicians, sorcerers, witches, and warlocks, they are the artisans of the magical arts, purveyors of spells and enchantments long lost to modern time and its scientific convention. Assassin… the shadow walkers who move silent and unseen by their victims until their blades are buried to the hilt in their heart.

Fourteen combatants in all, the seven Masters and the seven Servants whom they call forth from the Throne of Heroes to fight and kill to attain that which was named as the Holy Grail, that their wishes may be granted, one to the living and one to the dead. An absolute balance, a perfected measure of control… but a war is a war, and like all rules that have come before and like so many that will follow, they are broken.

Shattered.

Ignored.

Yet no higher price could be paid by the breaking of the simplest of rules for there, in the Holy Grail, existed something of… a loophole. Seven Masters and seven Servants, fourteen combatants in all. No more, no less.

Until the other classes were revealed… until one class was exploited.

Avenger… they whose lives were spent in the name of vengeance be it for themselves or others… It is not a true class, a substitute and nothing more. It was never meant to be used for few heroes of the past could fill the standard, and rare was it that the gifts of being an Avenger were welcomed. Summoned from frustration and slaughtered before the folly could be discovered, that which whom was called as Avenger was he who had, in life, been a sacrifice against all that is sin, all that is evil, all that is abhorrent of mankind. In his demise as a Servant, he had done what he had in life and so it was not the soul of an innocent, a soul of an avenging hero that was swept into the Holy Grail.

No.

What it was… what it is…

It is Sin.

It is Evil.

It is everything that mankind hates, loathes, and abhors about itself… all this and so much more was poured into the Holy Grail until that which it had been was no more. There was no holiness to this blackened Grail. The hellish monstrosity summoned forth by Avenger saw to that quite well. Yet… even in the deepest of darkness… there can be a spark, a tiny speck, of light that still shines, a soul willingly sacrificed so that a shared dream may together be realized.

The Grail has become corrupted… controlled by the Evils of the World but there is enough of its core, of _her_ original self, that retains, that remembers…

That all rules are made to be broken… and that Avenger is not the only class that can be called…

Ruler… they whom sat upon their thrones and pedestals as the people below looked up to them to follow their every word, their every command. This is a class that any royal might claim as their right but it is not reserved for these self-righteous and oft pretentious fools. No, it is the right of those who inspire faith, who inspire loyalty, who are led as much as they lead.

Saver… they whom are the saviors of mankind even, some would even say especially, in death. Messiahs each and every one of them for they are the holiest figures of mortal kind, chosen by Fate, guided by Destiny, and protected by the Almighty. This is a class whose place upon the Throne of Heroes is not on the throne proper but above it for if they are second only to He who is King of Kings. Their purpose, their design, for the Holy Grail Wars is to be the saving force when all else has failed, when the degradation has gone so far beyond redemption it would take only the living embodiments of purity, good, and all that is decent, to reform that which has become broken.

Yet what was left of the Grail proper could not make use of either of them. The Ruler is to be the judge, the overseer between the final four combatants for the wish and Saver… No, the corruption was too great, too much for the Calling to reach such a hero's ear…

But… there was one more to consider…

* * *

This was a foolish attempt. He knew this. He had no doubt that it would end in dismal failure and bitter disappointment but when one has no other options left but to try, no other hope left to covet, then even the most foolhardy of ventures are worth the risk of bitter defeat. The runes were carefully scribed upon the floor, a studious mixture of volcanic ash and his own blood. All that was left were the words and the reagent, which he doubted would actually work given its dubious origin but in the hell that was his life Before the End could he really question its validity?

He placed it carefully atop the altar before taking his place at the opposing side of the summoning circle. He bowed his head and considered once more the folly of this latest scheme. It was a chance discovery, an impossible idea, an inconceivable dream, but if it could work… if he became a participant in this competition, this "war"…

Then he could have his wish…

And the End would become a Beginning…

"You who sits upon the Throne of Heroes… if thou would lend thy power unto me… if thou would travel the same path to retribution as I… then hear my call and answer! I am the soldier of the forgotten… as much a monster as a man… My eyes are stained with the deaths of innocents, my hands the blood of the damned, and my soul by those whom I left behind… If thou art willing to stand beside such a miserable being… hear me and come forth!"

Nothing…

Not a spark, not a light.

Nothing.

And then the ground began to quake as fire burned unseen in the air… Light brighter than the exploding birth of a star blinded him but nothing to deafen him to the question asked of him.

**_I ask of you, are you my Master?_**

Words, emotions, intent… it didn't matter how his brain interpreted the unspoken tongue or the overwhelming vastness that was there and was not. The vast dining hall seemed almost miniscule, tight and small for the behemoth awaiting an answer that came with hope and without hesitation.

"Yes."

Crimson light flared across the back of his right hand, lines twisting and turning upon the pale flesh to carve an image composed of three parts that united made the vague impression of a reptilian claw.

Then, the oppressive presence and its overwhelming heat were gone as if they never were. But he could feel the tether, the chains that bound him to his Servant and the Servant to him. His latest foolhardy ploy, his childish scheme, a false hope to be unrealized…

It had worked.

It meant a lot of things. It meant that he well and truly had a chance for atonement, that there was magic here though it was not as he knew it to be, and that the words and curious glances held more to them than he had ever thought. That the accidents of his childhood were no longer unexplained and with this realization came an outburst.

"I'm a wizard…?"

* * *

They were at the pier.

Seven in all though only two were fighting…

Saber and Lancer…

He knew this the moment their duel had begun, even halfway across the city. It was his bane and his gift. A friend, a rare commodity he treasured more than his own life, had once jokingly referred to him as "The One Who Sees" in reference to this gift and the fact the original bearer of the title, fictional though he was, bore such an opposing disposition that the only similarities that could be found was in that which made them stand separate and alone.

He sees but not with a mystical eye. He knows but he has no idea. He understands yet he rarely comprehends. That's how he had always been even before he had been Chosen. It was one of the reasons he had been selected really, to see the Truth where others could only see the Lies. It's how he knew to go to the abandoned mansion, how he found that one book in a library of thousands more of its ilk, how he managed to live while the others…

Well. That was the past and his eyes were looking to the future.

He arrived moments before Rider and his master did, using the overly dramatic entrance to mask his presence as he took a place amongst the shadows. He had seen the assassins and the Servant who defined that class. He had nothing to fear of the mages but the Servant Assassin was… wrong. A fragment, a piece that could attack as a swarm and overtake him if he wasn't prepared to committing enough property damage that even the best of these magi couldn't mask from the mundane.

So he stood in the shadows.

So he watched.

As the Rider descended from the Heavens on a chariot of lightning and proclaimed himself fully to the world and invited both combatants to join him on his conquest for the Holy Grail as his companions but also as his underlings. He listened to the refusals of the Lancer and the Saber, both stating with pride their stances in this life. He winced as the Rider shouted once more to the heavens that any and all Servants and Masters watching in the darkness step forward lest they earn the scorn of the King of Conquerors.

He worried that his Servant found amusement in the Rider's words but did not rise to the bait as another did.

Archer.

No…

His eyes narrowed and he saw the man beneath the legend as he had with Saber and Lancer.

Gilgamesh…

He listened to the golden Servant's boasts on his regality, his reign from the heavens above the lowly peons who dare to label themselves as kings in his presence. The Rider did not help to make the situation better by bringing forth the fact that none of those present on the open grounds knew the Archer for who he was.

He watched as the golden lights circles open wide behind the Archer as he declared that the penalty of their ignorance would be their deaths. Weapons emerged from the rippling portals and as he had come to know of the Archer, so too did the hidden Master discover the golden king's Noble Phantasm for what it was.

The Gates of Babylon opened wider as the ancestral weapons of those founded in legend took aim. The weapons were nameless, each and every one of them, but far more powerful than what they would become for these were the legends at their highest potential and they carried it from sharpened point to smooth hilt. Such was the nearly limitless potential of these weapons that even the slightest of contact upon their target would result in an explosive force great enough that the hidden Master wondered if now was the time to interrupt.

Too bad that somebody had beaten him to the punch.

Shadows twisted and turned upwards and remained as a ethereal cloud around the armored form of the Berserker but even with this darkness so strong, so powerful as to be a Noble Phantasm in its own right, he saw the knight beneath the shadows, the man beneath the legend and even in the presence of that man's sworn and betrayed "king" did the Master feel himself breathless once more but not merely out of surprise.

For he was not the only one to recognize the Berserker for whom he was… who he had been… and what he had done…

It started as a low growl but to those unawares of its origin it could very well have been thunder to their ears. Then, it rose in volume until there was no mistaking the hellion roar for what it was and even the golden clad Archer could not refrain from dismissing away the Gates of Babylon from the overwhelming _fury_ that came with such a sound. Those weak-of-heart and weaker minded fell blissfully into the catching embrace of unconsciousness while those of steely resolve and burning passions of their own at least maintained the dignity of wakefulness though it was only they whom are blessed by the arts of magic, practitioners or creations-of it did not matter, who did not immediately collapse from the echoing tide.

In fact, of those present only two remained, for the most part, largely unfazed.

Berserker was already moving, leaping up seemingly in an attack for Archer but instead used the Golden Servant as a shield between him and the onslaught of fire that came surging forth after the Black Knight. There was no preparing, no escaping, such a sudden assault of flames that burned so hot that they blazed white at their edge and stunning blue in their center.

A massive shadow fell as something moved through the open air, tracking the fleeing speck of blackness with a burning trail of fire as the winds kicked up the smoke and ash away from the flapping of enormous wings. The earth shook as the originator of the hellion roar and equally hellish fires landed where the King of Heroes had once stood boasting his superiority above his fellow monarchs. The molten scrap molded to claws longer than a man is tall as a tail large and imposing with its spaded tip swung with clear displeasure made all the more apparent by the vicious sneer of fangs on the reptilian's snout. Crimson scales gleamed like bloodied rubies in the artificial lights whilst the pale spotlight of the moon highlighted the fury of amber orbs as the glared into the shadows, smoke trailing through clenched jaws as the furnace of innards stoked the fires to their full intensity and made bright the massive neck with its warm glow.

But Berserker was gone, retreated with his barely conscious Master carried tightly in his arms for even in the depths of his madness, the Black Knight remembered his own experiences with beasts such as what slain Archer in his stead and though he was by no means an apprentice in the art of slaying such monsters from the world he knew from such experience that his Master would not survive the battle to be had between him and the impossibly summoned Servant.

The Beast.

The smoke wafted away completely, the furnace dying to the softer embers of a mundane flame. He who stunk of blood and betrayal was gone and much as the desire to make an intended kill rather than one of incidence, finding such an insect in a hive was only going to lead to further frustrations and annoyances.

Speaking of…

Amber eyes narrowed before the triangular spade of the Beast's tail whipped forth through the air and brought the nearby crane down with a crashing of steel girders. Fangs flashed forward and bit down upon something which screamed bloodied murder before it was permanently silenced with a bone-breaking crunch and the remains spat down upon the ground between the Beast and the remaining Servants.

Assassin's head rolled forward until the skull of his mask was staring up at the Rider's grim face. He glanced back down at his master and saw that the boy had collapsed, from shock or the sheer enormity of the monster's presence. The Lancer was tense on the Rider's right, gripping both spears tightly in his hands. He couldn't move to retrieve his Master and flee lest he draw the monster's attention upon the man who wisely remained silent and did not dare draw the Beast's attention by ordering his Servant to take him and flee.

Truly it was a wise thing for the man to have soiled himself shortly before falling unconscious.

It gave him a reason for a change of clothes if nothing else.

From their hidden perches amongst the towering stacks, master and apprentice remained still as the dead and breathed just the same. Both were not unfamiliar in the ways of magic though neither could be claimed or considered as proper practitioners of the craft. Both had met and conversed with a living legend but it was a legend that did not live up to their inbuilt expectations, the dreams and imaginations of a childhood where the legends seemed as factual history of a forgotten past.

This?

This was everything those stories said and more for this did not meet their expectations but shot them down and ground them into dust, particularly in the eyes of the stand-in Master of Saber who was doing a marvelous impression of a guppy, cuteness and all. As for the Saber herself…

Were it in her possession, she'd have returned her blade to its sheathe. Were she not in the presence of enemy Servants and already sporting a major injury upon her left wrist the Saber would have dismissed her weapons and armor alike in the presence of this Beast for just as she had recognized the Lancer by his legend so too did she know this Beast through his.

Rather, through hers.

Amber met emerald as an ancient beast gazed upon a young royal. One was clearly a monster's gaze, inhuman and ravenous in its intensity and the other, while human, contained the same semblance of power for theirs was a shared bond betwixt destiny and fate. Yet now, centuries past the time in which they made their marks in history and legend, is when they should meet. It might have been a moment, it may well have been several minutes, either way the staring contest was won by he who looked away with disdain from she whose eyes carried more than her soul in its evergreen depths.

The tapping of wood and footsteps knocked gently upon the sacred silence instilled by the Beast's full emergence into the Holy Grail War but it was the voice of the Beast's Master who shattered it fully.

"I suppose that we all should be grateful that you didn't deem it necessary to swallow, eh?" The Master stood beneath the shadows of a half-spread wing so while the details were lost there was no missing how much he favored his left side or the cane he leaned upon. His glasses, which seemed a size too large upon his face, gleamed in the light and his smile was a touch mad as he looked upon the remaining Servants in turn until his gaze fell upon the Rider. He bowed his head with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry but as enticing an offer as it is to fight under your banner, I'm afraid that neither my Servant or I would bow our heads to you, King of Conquerors."

Rider blinked twice before he roared with laughter. "You are more than I expected from the Master of such a Servant!" He chuckled as he shook his head. "At least I can claim an interesting night out of this."

The Master of the Beast shook his head. "As I said, we will not bow to you but I never said that alliances were out of the question. We have seen for ourselves that the death of Assassin was more than a slight exaggeration on Archer's part, and there is Caster to consider, but that's a conversation for another night with less… excitement shall we say?"

He turned away and started once more for the shadows but paused. He did not turn back but there was a small twitch of movement, the slightest glance out the corner of an eye. What he saw confused him but as much as he wanted to inquire he held tightly to his parting words. The night's excitement was great enough and he needn't add to it with accusations of the Saber's status as…

Well, that was a topic for another night.


	6. The Eighth Servant: The Beast Part Two

DISCLAIMER: All copyrighted materials belong to their respected owners.

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Following in the trend of many other authors, From a Dusty Attic is a series of could-have-been & just-might-be stories. Some will be epic in sheer length and might be moved to their own one-shot, others just short enough to be called a chapter. All are open for adoption on the condition of asking first and if some garnish enough popularity, I may flesh them out into longer stories or at least add an additional scene or two. In any case, the dust and cobwebs have been wiped away so without further ado, I hope that you all enjoy:

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**From a Dusty Attic**

By Corvus no Genmu

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"_The Eighth Servant_"

Part Two

He admired the stonework of the castle. He had a thing for them, a passion really, for such places that brought to mind the fairy tales of his youth. Though given recent experiences he supposed that calling them mere tales was hardly fitting… but that was neither here nor there. At the moment, he was enjoying an amusing show between two Servants who still remained the rightful Kings that they had been in their legends long past. To be fair, most of the amusement came from their respected Masters. The Rider's young master looked torn between having a nervous breakdown being in the middle of enemy territory and throttling a man who could easily break him like a toothpick. The Saber's… stand-in was probably the nicest title he could use for her, looked torn between being confused and angry at the red-haired Servant and the meek Master who had supposedly supplied the Rider with the funds to afford a barrel of wine.

Speaking of, he'd best make his presence known before his own Servant does so for them both.

"If this is to be a dialogue rather than a war, I admit to my own interest though I must question your reasoning King of Conquerors." The Master of the Beast stepped forward from the shadows of a nearby archway. He smiled with eyes closed to the shock and horror that his revealed presence brought forth to those unexpected of his arrival and of his true appearance. "After all, if the Grail were to fall to the hands of royalty then it would have summoned seven kings instead of three."

In the open as he was, there was no hiding the young man, a boy barely into the full cusp of adulthood really, that was the Master of the Beast. His smile was a mask of cheerfulness and his glasses gleamed brightly, hiding the pained winces found in weary brown eyes. He favored his right side as he walked, putting much of his weight on his cane as he walked with carefully measured steps. He was dressed plainly without any distinction of his rank among the magi and in a crowd of the mundane he'd easily have been lost were it not for the scars. Burns by the looks of them, that covered most of his left arm and went up to just beneath his eye on the same side.

The Master of the Beast stood beside and between the two Servants and struggled with sitting himself down, moving an uncooperative limb aside by way of his cane until a hand gripped him gently by the arm.

Whether it was the shock of his appearance, both physical and sudden, it came as no small surprise to the younger Master to find himself with the shockingly soft hand of the Servant Saber assisting him to his seat on the ground. Though sore that he had to be helped at all, the Master did not keep silent his gratitude and spoke them with a soft whisper.

"Why have you come here, Master of the Beast?" asked Saber, keeping her grip upon his arm.

"Arthur."

Saber blinked. "What?"

"My name." The Master of the Beast clarified with a self-depreciating smile. "It's Arthur. Arthur L. Kuromori." He pulled his arm free from her lax grip and answered the unspoken question. "Hardly coincidence I think, meeting the very person I was named after but then there is no such thing as coincidence is there…?" He shook his head. "As to why I'm here, well, this is to be a Grail Dialogue yes?"

"That it is boy," agreed the Rider, presenting a cup of wine to Arthur with a smile. The Master of the Beast took it with a small nod of thanks and took a small swallow and grimaced. The Rider laughed heartily at the sight. "Too strong for you?"

"Hardly. Too weak." Arthur looked upwards. "Would you be so kind as to spare one of your acquisitions?"

Single eyebrows were raised before the twins shot up to meet them as the Beast raised his head up from outside the castle walls. Amber eyes glared down not upon the humans but the opened barrel of wine. A disdainful snort of ashen smoke expressed the Beast's opinion of the drink. The Beast stood upright and reached over the castle wall to drop a barrel of his own, its top already torn free with the liquid concoction within set aflame at its center.

Rider, deciding that tasting the wine presented by a dragon was far more prudent than asking such ridiculous questions like where the Beast had acquired it or had said Beast kept appearing out of nowhere with little evidence of being Astralized beforehand. Not one to do anything halfway, the Rider took not a small sip but a large gulp of the warmed wine and found himself wondering just when the world had decreed it necessary to tilt slightly upon its axis.

"This… is excellent wine!" He exclaimed jubilantly and proceeded to pour several cups for everyone no matter that they refused to remain in place on the ground. "Your Servant has fine tastes boy!"

Arthur smiled but didn't give away the joke hidden in the Rider's words as he took a small sip of his cup. "Only the finest of wines would satisfy his palette, believe me. Too bad that possessing such fine spirits is not a prerequisite to attaining the Grail eh?" He chuckled, his cheeks slightly red.

Perhaps a sip was too much to take after all.

"While I don't deny that this fine drink deserves an equally fine vessel from which to drink," said the Rider, "the Grail is not a drinking cup. First, you'll have to tell us the scale of your wish for the Grail."

"The scale of my wish?" Arthur repeated, his grip tight upon his cup. He smiled and like before, it was an empty thing, devoid of any happiness. "I'm afraid you'll have to provide an example Rider if either Her Majesty or I are to weigh our wishes properly."

To his surprise, Arthur found himself with an embarrassed Rider who took another long drought of wine before he answered. "True incarnation."

"What?" The Saber started in surprise though her outburst was a quit whisper to the startled shout of the Rider's master who ran forward to shake the larger man's shoulder.

"What?! Hey, wasn't your goal supposed to be world conquest—Urk!"

Arthur was impressed. He doubted any other man could attain such distance with the flicking of a finger to the younger man's head.

"Idiot. What's the point of having some drinking cup conquer the world for me? Conquest is a dream I'll entrust to myself. All I want from the Grail is the first step of that process. Even if mana gives us form in this world we still ultimately remain as Servants. I want to be firmly rooted to this world as a living human." The Rider clenched his fist tight, no one noticing Arthur's eyes flicked over to the Saber for a second in time. "And with a body of my own I shall defy both Heaven and Earth. _That_ is what the act of conquest is about. It is how it begins, proceeds, and is finished. Such is my path of conquest."

"Defiance of Heaven and Earth…" Arthur mused, his fake smile small and almost gone as he took a drink.

"That's not how a king should be." Saber stated.

"Oh? Let us hear what you wish for then," said the Rider.

"I wish for my homeland's salvation. With the omnipotent wish-granting device I shall avert Britain's fate of destruction."

Arthur didn't speak, didn't gape, he only stared with narrowed eyes upon the King of Knights as though she was the most disgusting thing he had ever seen and now, with her declaration, she truly was as such in his eyes. He might not possess a gift of words but given what he had already seen of her it wasn't hard to put the pieces of the puzzle together and the image they created was certainly not befitting the King of Knights. "You… _That_ is why you made the deal? _That_ is the bargain you struck to be here not as you should but as you are?"

The Saber's eyes widened in surprise but Arthur was far from finished as he pushed himself up on shaking legs and trembling arms not from pain but from simmering rage.

"You… would lay down everything that you are, everything that you have been, and everything that you continue to be… just so that you won't exist? So that the life you lead, the victories and the defeats would be laid at another's feet, and the blame and the praise could be laid upon another's shoulders? I had expected the King of Conqueror's wish, the wish of a man whose legend was cut far too short but I respect that he does not desire to start anew where his story ended but to craft another legend here, now, at the beginning rather than at the end."

He was advancing upon her and though she knew not what her body was doing without her conscious thought, she was retreating from him because just as what Arthur saw in Arturia so too did she see something, _someone_, she had known in life. A bumbling old coot of a mage but the dearest of friends and one whom she had seen angry, truly angry, once before and it was the sight of a similar rage that made her the mouse instead of the lion.

"You are a dreamer, Arturia Pendragon!" snapped Arthur, using the Saber's name rather than her titles. "A dreamer who dreams of rest rather than adventure! You dream of being forgotten, of oblivion whilst my own Servant dreams of living! Of being awake rather than asleep as you clearly are!"

The Saber's eyes widened, pinpricks in globes of white. "Impossible. How can—"

"Once, I had a title of my own. Once, I was jested by friends and allies as being _the One Who Sees_ and what I see here before me is not a Saber and most certainly not a king. What I see before me is a little girl who dreamt herself a King of Knights and now tired of the dream wants not awaken from it but to banish it away as though it never was! What I see…" He sighed, and seemed to collapse upon himself, putting all of his weight upon his cane as he leaned forward on trembling legs. "A bigger mess than I realized." He looked up at the shadows of the castle walls. "I admit my surprise, I did not think that I warranted so much attention."

"What?" The question, amazingly, came from the Master of Rider, which earned a small smile from the Master of the Beast in response. Trust the Master of the brashest of Servants would manage to keep his wits about him.

"Though the shadows aid you, the darkness is far from your ally. Come out, all of you. I want them to see how many Assassins it would take to kill a crippled monster." Arthur called out and in answer the Assassins emerged from the unnatural shadows. One, then three, then seven, and the numbers kept growing until well near a hundred stood throughout the ramparts and castle walls.

The Masters moved to stand close to their Servants though only the Saber had taken invisible sword in hand. Rider, still in his casual attire, was amicable as ever as he raised a filled cup to the crowd of Assassins.

"Now, don't hold back! Those who'd speak with us, come forth and take a cup with us! This drink is as your blood!"

A dagger shattered the cup on its way to impalement on the ground just beside Arthur. The wine spilled over the Rider's shoulder in a large red stain and to his credit, the Servant didn't even flinch as he glanced down at his ruined shirt.

Oppressing silence.

Unnatural stillness.

Which meant only one possible thing.

"… Shit." Arthur muttered.

"I did say this drink is as your blood. If you insist on spilling it… So be it." The wind roared in a tight tornado around the Rider who was now no longer in appearance a muscular and boisterous man but a muscular and boisterous King of Conquerors. "Pay close attention Saber! It looks like I will have to show you how a king truly stands!"

The small spark of light that Arthur had seen in the Rider's heart expanded outwards, swirling and twirling as it gained greater magnitude until all who stood upon the castle grounds had been absorbed into its shining depths. Yet it was not a place upon which the gathered found themselves though it could be assumed as such as it did appear every bit the magnificently large desert. No, it was the crystallization, no, it was the _realization_ of the Rider's very soul. Everything that he was, everything that he is, and everything that he could still be was now grafted into reality itself, but to put it in the simpler terms of the magi…

"A Reality Marble…" whispered Irisviel. "Unbelievable…"

Arthur admitted his own disbelief to himself as he eyed the unspotted and unconscious form of his Servant who somehow still managed to cling to an emptied barrel of wine here in this realized reality of the soul. He knew of the rare and often exploited weakness of dragons but had hoped that given his legend, the Beast would have proven far stronger in that regard.

_Or it could be because of that very legend he has that weakness at all…_ thought Arthur. _After all, was that now he and his rival were imprisoned in the first place?_ He looked back towards the approaching army of Alexander the Great and smiled. _I guess we can sit this one out…_

And so he did, standing back and watching as the boisterous Servant proclaimed his own magnificence as his army of thousands of heroes surged forth and overtook the band of Assassins in a massive tidal wave of steel. Many of the manifestations of the Assassin tried to run but where was there to run from the soul of a King? Yet, there remained one standing, not in defense or even attack but in acceptance. Perhaps it was her who was the True Assassin or perhaps she was simply the most sensible of them. In the end, it didn't matter for she died just the same as all the rest though perhaps with the honor in having the King of Conqueror behead her with his own blade.

Then, it was over and the blinding desert day was returned once more to the heart that carried it and the castle night resumed its reign in the midnight hours. Arthur took one last drink of wine as he felt the Beast stir outside the castle walls, awake and mildly confused. Sending a silent promise of explanation, the Master of the Beast set his cup down and turned away from the rest of the gathered Servants and their Masters.

"I think I've said all that need be said this night… but no, I suppose there's something else I should say." Arthur looked heavenward. "I came here to find out for myself whether I would find remorse in killing the two of you. That in some way your wish or those of your Master's could possibly outweigh my own. I was wrong and I was right. I respect your wish to start anew in this life rather than what you were before, King of Conquerors so my Servant and I will face you as you faced the Assassins, at your strongest or not at all."

The Rider's face was unnaturally calm but he nodded all the same, a small smile tugging unseen at the corner of his lip.

"As for you." Arthur didn't even deign to look at her but there was no question as to whom he was referring. "Six billion, nine hundred seventy three million, seven hundred thirty eight thousand, four hundred and thirty three."

"What?"

"That is the weight of my wish. It's the same wish as your Master's own." Arthur looked to Irisviel and the pale-haired homunculus knew that though he was looking at her, he was speaking to her husband. Even so, she tilted her head in confusion, as pain seemed to well up in the younger man's eyes as he gazed upon her and wondered to herself why he had flinched when he first set his eyes upon her. "The only difference I suppose between us is in the context." He bowed to her. "May your remaining days be good to you as you deserve, Miss von. No, I'm sorry, Mrs. Emiya."

"What—How—?" Irisviel tried to stop him, to try and spot him from the darkness but she had not the same eyes as he and though she thought him gone by way of magic she had no clue to the truth. That Arthur was merely leaning against the opposite side of the wall, tears falling from his eyes as he pressed a hand against his face.

"For him… She's killing herself for him." He whispered, seeing another woman's face in place of the Lady Irisviel's own, blood trailing from her heartfelt smile from the joy that he would live even as she would not. "Damn it…"

* * *

He had to give credit where credit was due. He had thought that the Caster would make a grandstand out of his final fight in the War and the madman certainly overfilled that quota. He hadn't expected a man with no real claim of power, no real legend beyond his treachery to his Lady, to command the power necessary an eldritch abomination straight from the depths of whatever pit of damnation spawned it. He stood back in the shadows of the shore, unseen even by the keen eyes of the Lancer by simple fact that the Heroic Spirit had not turned his eyes away from the abomination making headway through the river towards sustenance and, ultimately, full realization into this world.

**_Will you not fight?_**

His hand clenched the top of his cane tightly. Though they were not words spoken or heard, he understood the intentions, the instinctual methods behind the mind of his Servant.

_It is not a matter of will… Not anymore._ He had seen how little harm came from the Rider's lightning, had witnessed the cleaving of tentacles by the invisible sword of the Saber, and had watched as burns were wiped clean and sliced limbs regrew in the blinking of an eye. The power to end this battle… was not his to command. It never was, not even then when he had earned the right when no one else could. So the Master closed his eyes to the world and begged of his Servant to cast forth his flames once more.

The answer was hardly unexpected. **_What do I gain in the helping of humans? What do I acquire in the aiding of children?_**

His own, he sincerely hoped, was not so expected. _Recognition._

Silence.

So he continued, _There upon the shore, are people, mundane the whole lot of them, but they hear it, they see it, and they know it for what it is. Yet they cannot see the man who rides the lightning or the girl wielding the air as her steel. But they will see you. They will recognize you. They will know that the Age of Gods lives still if not in the World then in its People. They will see you as you are and they will whisper the name of your People with reverence and fear._

Silence still.

Then the air was rent by a legend's roar. The wind blew as a gale beneath massive wings, which carried forth a crimson Beast to the heavens to soar with primordial grace upon the air. Fangs revealed their ferocity with a hellish light before that light came gushing forth in the form of flames. A stream of dragon's fire flew down and burned all that it touched, the river water ignited as their bloodied cargo became like sin and was vanquished just the same. The tentacles were not so much burnt as they were ignited and ruptured as unbelievable heat met flesh unaccustomed to the temperatures beyond that found in dismal pits of watery graves. The body of the abomination _screamed_ as its flesh was vaporized down to its core yet whereas the tentacles were lost completely, the remains of the flesh quivered in their futility to heal before the next onslaught of fire could rain down once more.

Salvation came to the abomination in a most unexpected interruption.

"Berserker…" whispered Arthur, startling the Lancer and Irisviel with his presence as he stepped up to stand beside them at the shore, his gaze locked on twin motes of light shining in the sky above the battlefield. The Beast twisted in midair and dodged as one light was caught and devoured by the abomination. It screamed as new tentacles ruptured free from its body but the burns remained unchanged. It would need far more than the body of a single man to manifest its full potential.

Much more…

The second mote of trailing light gained a purplish tint as darkness enveloped its entirety in a physical shroud and reddened veins of blood pumped beneath metallic flesh. In life, it had been a McDonnell Douglas F-15 Eagle, a fighter jet like any other of its breed but in the grasp of the Black Knight, of the Berserker who fought under Someone's Glory and bore a Knight of Honor, it had become a part of a legend and so was no longer a mere machine.

It had become enchanted.

And by the Berserker's will, it became almost alive as twin engines roared their fury, carrying the blackened steel through the air and twisting about in a tight circle as it spat forth a storm of bullets in a long trail first across a score of tentacles that were unfortunate enough to be in the way, past the startled and soon confused Saber, and upwards to their real target. Bullets that were admittedly only semi-capable of piercing the thickest of armor made up for this weakness by being highly explosive upon contact.

Yet even enchanted bullets did little more than bring the attention of the Beast away from the abomination.

The Berserker soared past, crimson visor meeting amber eyes for the briefest of moments, and then it was soaring heavenward before twisting back for another pass. Missiles flew from beneath steel wings and the Beast did not so much run as make use of the equally massive and stupidly flailing form of the abomination. Enormous wings flapped with gale producing force before the inferno was unleashed in blazing balls that shot forth and left a burning trail through the air as they shot past closer and closer to their twisting and winding target.

The Beast twisted sharply, fangs biting and just missing the F-15 as it shot past. He fell upon the bridge and took roost at its highest point with wings tucked in tight only to suddenly unfurl them with a roar that set forth a stream of dragon's fire across the river, splashing over the top of the towering abomination, and further still. A roar almost inhuman in its ferocity but still produced by a human voice and intentions, answered the call and charged forth on wings of steel.

No one could understand what was occurring, for most either had absolutely no idea and those few that were in the know only had the most vague of ideas. No, only the Master of the Beast knew what the Berserker had done, what the abomination could not achieve even if it was to reach full realization into this material plane. The ancient tales of knights and dragons were not forgotten and the actions of the Berserker were deeply modernized, it followed the same ancient formula of yesteryears. The knight had cast forth a challenge to a dragon, but such a fight was made worse not by the classifications of the Servants. What did it matter, their classes when it was they who were the force of reckoning on this battleground? Berserker or Beast, knight or dragon, it did not matter when one saw deep beneath the masks and saw them for who they were.

Lancelot of the Lake as the Blackened Knight of Camelot, the Betrayer of King Arturia, the Berserker of the Holy Grail War…

Against Y Ddraig Goch as the Red Dragon of Wales, the Benefactor of King Arturia, the Beast of the Holy Grail War.

And knowing this, Arthur L. Kuromori, Master of the Beast, the One Who Sees had only one thing to say

"Well isn't that just fantastic…"

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STATISTICS

**Class:** Beast  
**Identity:** Y Ddraig Goch the Red Dragon of Wales**  
Basic Stats:**  
_Alignment:_ Chaotic Neutral  
_Noble Phantasms: _EX_  
Strength:_ EX  
_Endurance:_ A  
_Agility:_ C  
_Mana: _EX_  
Luck:_ D

**Class Skills:  
**_Independent Action:_ EX_  
Magic Resistance:_ B++  
_Presence Concealment:_ Unknown*

**Personal Skills:  
**_Battle Continuation: _A  
_Instinct:_ A  
_Monstrous Strength:_ EX  
_Prana Burst (Flames):_ A++  
_Draconian Dominium:_ A+++  
_The Standards of a Connoisseur (Spirits):_ A_  
_  
**Noble Phantasms:**  
_Suspencion of Disbelief: Seeing is Believing:_ N/A  
_The Linked Chains of Agony: Mother Nature's Sympathy:_ A  
_Dragon's Breath: The Desecrating Flames of Ruin:_ A+

**_Exposition:_**  
_Draconian Dominium:_ Being one of the few dragons of legend who was not slain and instead lived for several centuries to be a body of prophecy that brought an even greater legend into being, Y Ddraig Goch is the most powerful example of his race and nigh unkillable even with the strongest of modern and ancient magics. Only weapons with a long history of dragonslaying are capable of injurying him but to kill him would require a mortal blow made within the first five minutes of the battle's start otherwise victory is far from assured.

_The Standards of a Connoisseur (Spirits):_ Having impeccable tastes for only the finest of wines and other such alcoholic drinks, one cannot accept anything less than the finest of spirits. Due to his high rank Y Ddraig Goch is not only easily susceptible to being distracted by potent drinks but is fully capable of being knocked out after several barrels' worth of drink.

_Suspension of Disbelief: Seeing is Believing:_ An Anti-Unit Noble Phantasm possessed by all Phantasmal Beasts in the modern world. Variable in strength and power by the Phantasmal Beasts in question and the nature of those surrounding them. In the case of Y Ddraig Goch, mundanes cannot perceive him at all while Mages and Servants can but only so long as they are aware of his presence, or are in possession of Mystic Eyes. If he is hidden by some means or is not in their direct line-of-sight, his presence cannot be perceived even under the most direct of circumstances.

_The Linked Chains of Agony: Mother Nature's Sympathy:_ Like _Suspension of Disbelief_, it is a Anti-Army Noble Phantasm that is constantly active and is similar in nature to the Frankenstein Monster's own _Scream of the False Lifeform_ insomuch that its strength is variable by Y Ddraig Goch's injuries. At its weakest, it sends a pinnacle of matched pain to all whom hear it. At its strongest… plants wither, animals drop dead where they stand… and children are born still as stone…

_Dragon's Breath: The Desecrating Flames of Ruin:_ An Anti-Army Noble Phantasm, _Dragon's Breath_ is, as its name emplies, a blast of flames hot even to melt ordinary steel at its lowest temperature. The colors of the flames vary upon temperature and can be fired in either a stream exceeding a city block or condensed balls of plasma that can travel several miles and explode upon contact.


End file.
